


the next world over

by jasondean



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Character Death, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, M rating is for implied sex, M/M, Memories, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasondean/pseuds/jasondean
Summary: Eiji does not believe in the supernatural but he does believe in ghosts.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	the next world over

Eiji Okumura met the love of his life at nineteen years old.

In this way, he was lucky. Years stretched out before them, beckoning with dreams and promises not yet realized. Youth and subsequent inexperience made the journey awkward, but it was the first step of a longer affair. A promise of more to come.

Well, that was the theory.

There was a sense of urgency that Eiji had once misplaced for the allure and passion of a first relationship. Yet, in retrospect, it is clear they both knew—at least subconsciously—that there was a time limit hanging above their heads. 

Eiji Okumura lost the love of his life at nineteen years old.

It has been five years since Ash died. Eiji does not know the details of what happened. He does not want to know. It doesn’t matter how his last moments were decided—no knowledge can change the fact that Ash is no longer on this Earth. Nothing short of turning back time can save Ash, and Eiji is done obsessing over the past. He _wants_ to be done obsessing over the past.

Life goes on. The planet continues to revolve. And suddenly it is five years. And still Eiji feels his absence as if it is a part of himself gone. 

This is how it is.

He leads a fairly normal life. He lives in Greenwich Village—not alone, if you ask him, because he has a dog that takes up so much of his world. He does photography for a living. He’s in the best shape of his life, not accounting for his pole vaulting days. He has friends who he goes to brunch with. He even has a semblance of a love life made up of Tinder matches that fizzle out, awkward first dates, and routine hookups. Life is good. More than good, at certain points, really. 

And yet there is a void. And yet Eiji has never felt more lonely.

As a rule, he does not take photos of people’s faces anymore. He has albums worth of pictures of ghosts. Shorter looks at him behind dark sunglasses with his obnoxiously purple mohawk and cheesy peace sign. Ash peers at him with his striking green eyes, putting on a straight face for the camera. And in between them is Eiji himself—a different Eiji, Eiji at nineteen, with shaggy hair and a candid grin that’s all teeth. Trapped in another time.

If it weren’t for photographs he is too sentimental to throw out, maybe Eiji could forget. He does not do faces anymore because he wants to forget.

It hurt when he first realized he’d forgotten how his voice sounded. Then he felt relieved. And then he felt guilty.

The last photograph Eiji has of faces that is not stored away resides on his fireplace in a wooden frame. He took it when he was twenty-one, shortly thereafter deciding to focus on non-human subjects and, as mentioned, avoiding faces as a whole—it’s a nice picture, showing himself and Sing posing against an old brick wall. He remembers seeing that backdrop and goading the boy into a picture. He remembers Sing barely putting up a fight because it was the first time in years Eiji had truly seemed excited, much less happy. 

In the photo, he hugs Sing to him and points at the camera like he’s spotted something incredible. Sing is only half-looking at the camera; it’s clear seconds before he was staring at Eiji. While Eiji wears an overly pronounced expression of joy, Sing is caught with a genuine smile. 

When Sing got his GED, he came over to Eiji’s with Yut-Lung (at the time, Eiji and Yut-Lung had a strained relationship but it was a far cry from the outright hostility when Ash was alive) to celebrate, and he’d first seen the picture standing innocently on the mantle. He’d blushed profusely and demanded Eiji take it down while Yut-Lung had openly fawned over the picture. Eventually, Sing abandoned his demands to fight properly against Yut-Lung’s teasing, and the photo remained.

Eiji does not think he can handle being haunted by Sing as well. He is relieved to know Sing has left behind his old life, but even without the threat of gang violence, sometimes he looks at him and he thinks tomorrow he’ll be gone—stranger things have happened—a memory on his fireplace, another ghost in his life. In these moments he mourns and then he blinks and it’s gone, Sing is alive in front of him stuffing his face with a blueberry muffin and prattling away, mouth full, about some college nonsense. Homework, projects, credits, all sorts of meaningless noise.

Upon returning to Japan, Eiji considered finishing his degree, he really did. But then Ibe called and Ash was dead and there was no funeral because who would sponsor some street kid’s last hurrah and there was nothing left of Ash for Eiji except photos and photos and photos. Suddenly it was hard to pick up a camera. Suddenly he could see him in every shot he staked out and he only felt dread, no inspiration. 

One of his favorite photos to focus on during his short lived return to Japan was a picture of Ash wrapped up in the sheets of—one of their beds, Eiji can’t recall. It isn’t a feat of creative genius and even the technical aspects of the photo aren’t very impressive. The subject is a little washed out by the sunlight pouring through the window and the white of the sheets and not to mention a bit blurry and out of focus. It was a spur of the moment thing—Eiji had been staring shamelessly at Ash, taking in how beautiful he looked (as one does), when he’d said something along the lines of why not take a picture?

Eiji had been taken aback—Ash was genuine, no trace of teasing. “Now?” Eiji had asked.

“Yes, now,” Ash had said. He had never been exactly camera shy, but he didn’t actively vie for the lens like this, something Eiji suspected was due to his past but knew better than to pry. 

A camera felt insidious, disruptive. “You are okay with a picture of you like this?” He was nude under the sheets, eyes still bleary from sleep, hair disheveled. “So…” _So vulnerable_ , Eiji had wanted to point out, but he was afraid Ash would close off if he were to draw attention to this.

“I trust you.” 

Eiji had flushed red with these three words, the weight of them placed so firmly on him that when he scrambled for his camera discarded on the nightstand and finally managed to take one measly shot, he was rushing through the motions. He felt pressured, and none of it had to do with taking the picture. Even turning out less than stellar, it was one of his favorites to reflect on. After Ash’s death, it was probably the one that hurt the most to look at. 

When Eiji left for New York, he had made up his mind about college—he preferred to refine his skills out in the field on his own. Attaching academia to what he was doing felt like a curse for burnout, so he took his time, grew at his own pace.

He does not always take the photos he wants to take—like anybody else, what he does for work differs from his personal pursuits. This is okay because five years of work and his freelancing has taken off considerably which gives him that much more room to create the art he truly wants to create.

For a period of time, Eiji had no such goals. This was a trend before he met Ash and a trend that stuck around even long after his death. Photography was a fun thing to pass the time, sure, but he was aimless.

He talked about this with Ash sometimes, when things weren’t as hectic as usual and he felt comfortable enough to indulge in his own minuscule problems. He might say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” At this point the frustration would leave his body and he’d be left feeling empty.

“Have you ever considered that’s okay?” Ash would ask.

“Okay? To not know?”

“Well, yeah. Who gives a shit? Are you having fun?” he would probe.

“I am. I love taking pictures,” Eiji might admit.

“Then that’s all that matters.” 

Ash would take his own pictures, borrowing Eiji’s camera with his permission. He would never deviate from taking pictures in their apartment, maybe straying to the balcony if he was in the mood. His eye always caught the most mundane things—the way the sun hit the tile floors, or how dust collected on the coffee table, or the way one of the pieces of art hung just a little bit crooked on the wall. Out of pure coincidence, Eiji finds himself employing a similar style into his photography now, making the details the star. Is it funny or tragic how Ash’s mannerisms still pop up in himself? Did Eiji start taking pictures like this because he remembered Ash liked to do the same or because it was genuinely something he was drawn to? Is there a difference? Or do all roads just lead back to Ash?  
  
He hates it. He hates how Ash, who has been in the ground for what feels like an eternity, permeates his life, tugging at him even when he feels he’s moved on. _Especially_ when he feels he has moved on—one instance of letting his guard down, allowing himself to feel happy and free, and suddenly Eiji spies golden blond hair ahead of him, green eyes glaring straight at him in the crowd. He blinks and it’s gone—of course it’s gone, of course Ash isn’t there, Ash isn’t anywhere—but the damage is done and he’s left with bitter resignation. This is the way things are. This is the way Eiji lives.  
  
Months will pass without a thought about Ash. In the beginning, he couldn’t go hours without remembering, without hurting. Intermittent memories bring a dull pain.  
  
Once, Yut-Lung had come over for dinner. Eiji missed cooking for someone else and he was busying himself in the kitchen. It had been years since the two had been stark adversaries and yet it was the one of the first times they’d been alone, no third party in sight. Yut-Lung had let go of his anger some time ago—he would scream until his voice went hoarse, he would cut his hands on broken wine bottles, he would seethe and seethe until he would collapse and finally cry as he fell asleep and it was such a horrible sight to behold but it made Eiji realize Yut-Lung had never hated _him_ but instead something intangible he represented. He never formally apologized and Eiji never formally forgave him but over the years they became something like friends.  
  
During that evening, Yut-Lung had sat on the couch and picked apart every single one of Eiji’s interior design choices and he was just happy to hear someone else’s voice, even if it was condescending, because sometimes the apartment felt so lonely even with Buddy. Sometimes it was just so unbearably lonely.  
  
In the kitchen, Eiji had been making something, responding to his guest with his own quips and then—it happened. He’d been chopping some vegetable, staring down at his hands as he worked quickly and then he’d been stopped in his tracks by—  
  
“You’re holding it in the wrong hand.”  
  
“I didn’t know there was a wrong way to hold a knife, thank you very much.”  
  
“What hand do you hold your knife when you’re planning to use it on somebody else, then?”  
  
Ash was silent, staring daggers at Eiji. He was holding a utility knife in his left hand, fingers clumsily curled around the handle as he was braced to bring the blade back down on a carrot. “The right one,” he finally admitted begrudgingly.  
  
“Why would it be different when you’re cooking?”  
  
“I don’t _know_ ,” he said, frustrated. “It feels weird holding the carrot with my left hand, I guess.”  
  
“Interesting. You feel more comfortable having control over the carrot than the knife,” Eiji observed. “Not afraid of slicing your fingers up?” At that, Ash had looked genuinely worried, which made the other break out into a smile. “I’m kidding. You are such a baby sometimes. I will make sure nothing bad happens. Try with your right now.”  
  
His chest hurt and he had realized he’d stopped chopping, instead choosing to intently stare at the knife in his hand. A memory so insignificant he’d thought he pushed it out of his mind completely by now. But he stood frozen, remembering the untouchable Ash Lynx struggling with a kitchen knife, a plastic headband pushing his hair out of his face as he looked intently upon his task, tongue sticking out with concentration, so insignificant and so domestic and so stupid to dwell upon, but he missed it, he missed it so much.  
  
Yut-Lung had noticed the lapse in the conversation and came into the kitchen with Buddy on his heels, finding Eiji stopped dead in his tracks staring at the cutting board. He asked if he needed help and Eiji had let Yut-Lung prepare the vegetables and all evening his mind wandered.  
  
_Sometimes you aren’t with us at all. Sometimes you take little trips and when you return is a guessing game,_ Yut-Lung had told Eiji once. _Are you not tired of having a seperate little life in the past?_ _  
_ _  
_ Eiji is so tired. He is so tired of being split between the past and the present. It feels impossible to let go, no matter how much he wants too.  
  
If he could talk to Ash now, he would beg him for help. He would demand to learn how to forget. He would tell him how much he hates him, he would tell him how much he loves him. He would tell him how grateful he is that it was him who taught him how to love, and then he would tell him how much he regrets knowing a life with him because it means enduring this lasting pain from a life without him.  
  
But if they really could speak again, Eiji would choose not to. He would rather hold him tight and kiss him hard, just to remember the feeling of his skin on his, just to remember what it’s like to hold and to love and want nothing in return—except now he wants more, he simultaneously wants time and a blank slate. He would want to feel Ash dissolve beneath his fingertips once more, share one last morning waking up twisted up in cotton sheets, share one last shower, one last breakfast, one last smile. He would tell him _I love you_ and Ash would say _I know_ —and how did he sound again?  
  
And here’s the truth—none of this could ever happen because ghosts are not physical; they do not carry the consciousness of a beloved. Ghosts are tied to whoever is left to remember them, and Eiji is cursed with remembering.

**Author's Note:**

> ive been writing this on my phone over the past nights, so if anything seems off thats why (also nothing i post is ever beta read in the first place).


End file.
